


Quod Erat Demonstrandum

by symbolcrash



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Character Study, Drama, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:32:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symbolcrash/pseuds/symbolcrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's the Doctor. He saves worlds, galaxies, universes. Most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quod Erat Demonstrandum

**Author's Note:**

> This came to mind after reading a bit of discussion on how the Doctor perceives his own heroism. Not too dark, explicitly, but the underlying theme is pretty grim.

We've just run from a group of large, angry, bipedal manatee-people. Our breath hitches in our throats - at least, mine does. I don't know about his. Seems he can keep this sort of thing up for hours. He says to me - he says I've got to stay fit, that's his secret. I know better. He's just extremely good at aggravating people (sometimes things, too, when he's up for a challenge), and so he's made to do a whole lot of running. I don't even know what planet we're on, and he smiles - tells me we've just violated sixty regional laws in less than as many seconds, and says it proudly. Like he should get a medal or something.   
  
Maybe he should.   
  
I jerk up violently - heard a noise, swear I did, like it was right over my shoulder - and he pulls me back down into the bramble. It's all I can do not to swear, but I know better now. I've got thorns in places I don't even want to think about, but I know better, and I grit my teeth against the pain.   
  
"Careful. Wait for them to pass."   
  
Voices. Or, something like voices - whatever passes for a voice in a world populated by civilised manatees, which is more of a squeak-grunt-ugh sort of sound - rises up from behind. Moments later, they traipse by on strong, weathered flippers that don't look like they should be able to support that kind of bulk, but they do, so there you go. The leader, the Captain of the colony, one of many whose names I can't pronounce with my "ugly, guttural vocal abilities" (boy, that one nearly set me off, but I was good for him) makes a slick, wet rubber sound when he tramples the grasses not even four meters away.   
  
I swallow fiercely and whisper: "Manatees don't eat people, do they?" Stupid question, I know, but when you're faced by five of them, all nice and enormous and adapted to land and  _out to get you_ , by the way, these things tend to cross your mind.   
  
He gives me a shushing finger, his eyes guarded yet intensely focused on the leader I mentioned. "Pleths, not manatees," he says finally, "and no, they're herbivorous. They can't actually digest meat."   
  
I relax.   
  
"They'll kill you in an instant, though." He frowns thoughtfully. "It's the way their justice system works. Death by skewer, most likely, and then they'll dump your body on the other side of the island. No sense in cluttering the bay with dead people; they're a sanitary sort of bunch."   
  
Thanks, Doctor. Thanks a birdload.   
  
Then, he does something I consider to be very, very stupid. He stands up.   
  
"Amnesty!" he shouts, and the manatee - I'm so  _sorry_ , the Pleth - spins around with a large, metal skewer held miraculously in his contorted flippers. It's the second time that day that I'm made painfully aware of my own mortality, and it's starting to get bothersome. I'm just about to let the Doctor know this (maybe not in so many proper words), when I'm interrupted by a peal of - well. I'm sure it sounds like laughter to the Pleth.   
  
"There is no such thing," the captain grunts. I'm sure if I could catch the tone he used, I wouldn't like it. "Your offences were numerous and unpardonable."   
  
"See, now you're lying," the Doctor smiles. "Amnesty is granted to ambassadors of trade, or so it was when last I visited."   
  
The captain snorts, a frightful sound. "Last you visited, Doctor," he squeals, "you suggested we overthrow the very government by which that particular sanction was granted! You will die, at last, for your crimes!"   
  
I'm still in the bramble, y'see - me, with the thorns in my trousers.   
  
The Doctor sighs. "Oh, you're such a sore winner, Aekgiikshk." I stare at him. No way I could've made that sound. Maybe Time Lords have two sets of pipes, too. "Didn't you get the sweet end of the bargain? A brand new government, hierarchy, with you as the Captain. Trade ambassadors should be granted amnesty from small crimes of culture unless they're  _dealing in slavery._ "   
  
Aek - uh, I'll just call him the Captain still, if it's all the same - regards the Doctor with some interest. "That was a precious resource we willingly sacrificed at your suggestion. It is you who owe  _us_  the favour; our city is no longer growing. The human trade was essential to our expansion, and now we experience overpopulation, stagnation, and anarchy!" The Captain approaches us slowly, his whiskers trembling with anger. "No, Doctor. You are no ambassador of trade, except for the trade of chaos, which you leave freely in your wake!"   
  
I look at the Doctor. It's almost sort of true, sadly enough. I can't think of one place we've been that hasn't exploded or revolted or something; I just thought it was bad luck. Judging by the way his jaw's getting all tense, I wonder if he doesn't agree. "I can't help you fix it if I'm dead," he says carefully. "You know as well as I do that I couldn't let that ship escape with enslaved human cargo. They were going to jettison it into your sun, I couldn't -"   
  
"But did you come back after saving the little humans, Doctor?" The Captain is snarling now, his spittle flying like rain, his skewer now centimeters away from the Doctor's chest. "Perhaps something of greater importance captured your interest? Perhaps government is not your strong suit? Perhaps -" the Captain gives him a terrible, leather-lipped grin - "you just didn't feel like it."   
  
I always thought that if the Doctor tried hard enough, he could set things on fire just by looking at 'em. He just seems to be that sort of bloke. Never did, though. Never set something on fire with his eyes. It's almost disappointing, really - although the look he's giving the Captain now might just be the one.   
  
"I came back when I could," he says, all hell taken from his voice and replaced with cotton.   
  
"People make mistakes!" I pipe up, and the Doctor looks like he's taken a jolt to the backside from the way he looks at me, like he forgot I was there. That doesn't do a lot to encourage me; then again, I'm used to it. Sometimes I feel important, like he needs me there, and I never hesitate to tell him so. But sometimes - and these, I never tell him - I feel dwarved by the passing of his shadow.   
  
If anything, now, I have to be confident. We do have that in common: we're both really good at talking in bad situations, and we know it. I'm not as smooth by a long shot, but I figure if we're going to die there anyway, I might as well put in a last word or two. "Yeah, that's right," I say, just a bit softer. "You heard 'im - he's here now."   
  
"And that is where the mistakes will stop," the Captain says coldly. "Our mistake was listening to you in the first place. If it is amnesty you seek, then be pardoned - from  _ever_  returning to this planet."   
  
"You don't understand, your city is dying, I came back to  _help_  -"   
  
" _You have helped enough!_ " The Captain digs the point of the skewer into the Doctor's coat. "This is your pardon: leave forever, or be killed!"   
  
Well, I know what I would choose. But the Doctor - he seems to be thinking it over. Oh my God, I can see the TARDIS through the trees! It's not that difficult a decision to make! "Doctor -"   
  
"Yes, Lucie?" He sounds too calm, too cool. For some reason, I can't meet his eyes.   
  
I reach out and gently clasp the tip of the skewer with my fingers. "Let's go," I plead.   
  
He looks up at the Captain, and after a pause that seems to last for hours (I'm never gonna get the hang of this relative time stuff), the Doctor gives the Pleth an almost imperceptible nod. The skewer is lowered.   
  
We walk, guarded and in complete silence, to that odd blue box of his. Usually, we'd have some sort of banter, arguing our superiority over one another, all in good fun, really. Nothing comes.   
  
We dematerialise. He's got something to fix, like usual, and I'm left to pick the thorns out of my knickers. I know that what just happened runs a lot deeper than sixty regional laws, but something tells me he doesn't want to talk about it.   
  
You know what? I just realised something.   
  
He never does.


End file.
